


18

by dansunedisco



Category: Veronica Mars (TV), Veronica Mars - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, Everything Hurts, Gen, Snark and Torment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-26
Updated: 2014-09-26
Packaged: 2018-02-18 22:06:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2363771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dansunedisco/pseuds/dansunedisco
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Logan Echolls and his 18th birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	18

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ghostcat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/gifts).



> Written for [Ghostcat's](http://ghostcat3000.tumblr.com) birthday! 3001 ain't nothing to shake a stick at.
> 
> I wanted to give her the gift of girl!Logan, but I didn't have time. Instead, she got this. Orginally posted on [tumblr](http://dansunedisco.tumblr.com/post/98441412713/haaaaappy-birthday-ghostcat).

He turns eighteen. There’s no fanfare. No cake, candles, coke, or celebratory calls. A couple of years ago, he would have been pissed at the radio silence. Groused to Duncan. Quoted Sixteen Candles, maybe. Definitely. Logan Echolls was no Samantha Baker. But it was never like that back then; never thought to think about things like being passed over by friends—“friends”. Quotations necessary. Logan before (the one whose biggest enemy was the mood Aaron was in that day) never spent a midnight straddling the years alone. Logan  _now_ —well, he’s happier left alone, staring at the ceiling in the loft he finally moved into, phone untouched. Really.

The lawyer comes for him in the afternoon, and doesn’t pack up until sunset. Says, “Just one more thing, Mister Echolls, and I’ll get out of your hair. This isn’t technically on the books, but—you have thirty days to mail this out.”

Logan stares at the manila folder his (soon-to-be former) lawyer drops in front of him. He’s tired, so tired, of paperwork and the pressure behind his eyeballs that follows. “Wow. Thank you for the birthday present, Jimmy. I was expecting a pack of Pall Malls and a Hustler, but this? You shouldn’t have. Now scram. I’m sure there’s someone in country lock-up waiting.”

Jimmy the lawyer—James J. Jefferson, according to his off-white Kinko’s business card—closes his briefcase. He hasn’t risen to any of Logan’s baiting thus far and doesn’t do so now. Just smiles, tight-lipped, and ushers himself out the loft without a backward glance. It’s been a rough year, for the both of them, with the Echolls estate and the fire and Aaron, but that seems to be par for the course.

Logan flips the folder open, expecting more legalese and bullshit (almost one in the same these days), but comes up short when he sees the words  **SELECTIVE RESERVES**  stamped across the top. He vaguely recalls his last semester at Neptune High, where his Econ teacher urged them to submit their paperwork when they turned eighteen. (“You’re looking at a cool twenty-five stacks and five years jail time if prosecuted for failing to comply,” Mr. Wang urged, like an absolute asshole).

Logan hadn’t given a shit then. Why would he start now?

He’s up and out of his chair before he can second-guess himself, fingers tapping out a quick text to Dick, his body convincingly following through on his plan to forget any and all adult responsibilities he now has and resolutely doesn’t want. The front door clicks shut behind him and he’s down the hall and climbing into the Xterra, driving a little too fast and not fast enough.


End file.
